Norwegian Wood
by cloverkiss
Summary: Severus once had a girl, or should he say, she once had him. SS/HG


Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable to JK Rowling, nor am I profiting from this piece of fanfiction.

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Daylight awoke him. The sun, in its ineffable persistence had the temerity to place itself right outside his eyelids, where he'd be woken to a blinding light. Severus raised and hand and tried to push back the offensive sun before slumping further over with a whimpering groan. Inalienable human rights. Moral decency. The Geneva fucking convention. No man deserved to be woken in such a manner. Pestering sun, blight of the goddamned morning, shone through his paper-thin curtains. Reminder to self: Need drapes.

Also, not in Geneva.

With the labor of a man committed to grumbling about his plight, Severus slowly hefted himself up from the couch, holding it with a steadying hand for support until the spinning world righted itself. Severus' eyes traveled around the miserable room that was the main part of his home. Walls, yellow. Carpets, grey. Ceiling, dodgy. Furniture, threadbare. Smell, two parts mam's old potpourri, one part whatever he'd cooked in his cauldron the night before. Aura, downright depressing. Severus shuffled into the kitchen, intent on coffee and a packet crisps for his rumbling stomach.

He really wanted to smoke a cigarette, but had given them up for some unaccountable reason. He shook his head. Must have been for the snakebite. Instinctively, Severus reached up and touched the garish mar that raked across his jugular_. It itched_. It always itched. Scratching at the stubble on his neck, he found a modicum of relief as he put the coffee pot on. As it perked, he leaned over the sink and examined the small plot of land out back. The Stars of Tunisia were doing rather well. The Alihotsy had just started sprouted. But the rue was looking rather sad and done over by his shears. Had he hacked at it that badly? Must have.

Grabbing a mug off the drying rack, Severus filled it with strong black coffee. Pausing to inhale the fresh aroma before taking the first sip, he stood in the middle of his kitchen floor, bare assed save his blue stripped boxers. There wasn't a single thing to do on his calendar, and Severus thought he might like to spend the day in the exact same manner he'd spent most of the week: attempting to drink more single malt scotch than a Pegasus.

Sinking his hand into the jar marked _Cookies_, Severus grabbed a fistful of owl treats and dropped them into his owl's tray as he walked by. Le Roi cracked open a disapproving eyelid. Severus was nearly out of the kitchen. Nearly on his way downstairs to flap about and piddle the day away, when by accident or intuition, he looked over his shoulder at the calendar tacked innocuously on the wall. It was the third. By his probable count, it was the third of the month. Which was circled on the calendar… in red. Not once, not twice, but several times as a child would. The kicking and screaming in his brain was irrefutable. Also, annoying.

"Bugger," Severus sighed.

_He needed to be presentable_, a voice stressed in his mind. Where that highly bothersome voice came from, he didn't know, but it wouldn't leave and Severus listened to it. _He needed to be washed and cleaned, with soap. And not snarky. A little bit of politeness would go a long way. After all, people wanted to help him._

When the time came to open his house to a court-appointed stranger, Severus was indeed washed, dressed and clean shaven. But these things hadn't improved his mood. He highly doubted anything could when he was at the mercurial whims of Ministry oversight. His high lord and jailor, the bane of his existence and evil despot was a frumpy middle-aged witch named Periwinkle Jones, ruddy council worker. Short, squat and with hair dyed a highly unnatural red color, Madam Jones brought him biscuits purely to antagonize him further. At present, Severus had yet to sample one.

She sat on his bloody couch with eager anticipation.

"I've brought snickerdoodles." There was a mischievous gleam in her eyes and goading smile that Severus did not like one bit. "Thought you might like them more than the sugar ones. I noticed you weren't too fond of them last time."

Severus pressed his lips into a thin line.

"Well then, don't mind if I help myself then. So how have you been keeping yourself, Severus? I noticed you look rather well."

He grunted a rough answer.

"With them bones, you could always gain a stone or two. Have you been out much? I haven't seen you round Hogsmeade like you used to do." She smiled encouragingly, trying to prompt him for a further answer, but none would be forthcoming. "Right then, to business." Pulling her large carpet bag to her, she rummaged for quite some time in the never-ending bottom until finding several large jars and phials of potionry.

Severus was drawn to his spikey script handwriting on each label. Staring for an interminable amount of time, he was unable to remember brewing any of them. Of course he had brewed them. Naturally. He stayed up brewing every night before crawling into a bottle… Had he been brewing drunk? Severus closed his eyes momentarily finding vague recollections; thin though they were, he knew he'd been sober. At least, he thought he might be sober.

"They've been tested," she interrupted his thoughts. "St. Mungo's tried them out thoroughly and they send their compliments. They were very impressed with all of your brews, though they've requested a less sticky bruise balm in the future."

"Changing the base would significantly alter the efficacy," Severus grumbled, his eyes riveted to the bottles sitting innocuously on his living room table.

"_Ah-ha!_ And wouldn't you know that better than I." She grinned proudly as if she'd won something from him. "You're doing it, Severus. You're on the mend; I can feel it. There's something here. And this is just the beginning. If you can just keep up the good work, you'll be on track to earning your Potions mastery certification back."

He sneered.

Words could not suffice to explain the deep injustice he felt. He'd always accepted and supported the decision that out-of-practice masters should have their mastery temporarily or permanently stripped for the welfare of the community. Potionry was more than an art and science; it was a public health issue: dangerous potions killed. That his own Potions mastery would be stripped from him while he lay deep in coma was beyond the pale. He had awoken as if no time had passed at all. Neither his mind nor his skills had atrophied. Only his professional accreditations had withered into dust.

When the round bottom of Madam Jones finally pushed through the Floo, Severus sank back heavily into his couch and dropped his head into his hands. Bruise balm. Pink Wink. Skele-gro. No-No-Nose-bleed. Bile-B-Gone. Blood replenishing potion. Dream dram. When had he actually brewed these? His mind was completely cluttered and disorganized, as it had been ever since he'd woken up in St. Mungo's, clutching at bed sheets and tearing at his neck. It'd taken several witches to hold him down, then. Every carefully constructed mental wall lay in desperate tatters. Fleeting thoughts, haunting and undesired, assailed him every time he looked around. He could dredge up terrible, bitter memories of the past, but brewing a few casual potions the previous month was a total loss to him.

Raising his head slowly, Severus turned and eyed the liquor cabinet that dominated the small room.

Without alcohol… he was stuck in his house.

Without alcohol… there was nothing to do.

Without alcohol… there was no way to spend the bloody time.

Without alcohol… his head was filled with nothing but bad memories

Severus walked to the liquor cabinet which swung open under his touch. He'd taken medical potions to protect himself, to protect his liver and his organs. He'd brewed potions to keep his hand steady, to keep his mind clear. To wake up without a hangover and to keep the smell from sweating out liquor from his pores. He'd done everything he could think of to conceal his problem from others and himself. Severus shuddered. The line of potions on the table was irrefutable proof he could not ignore. Drunken brewing was a sure way to die in a cauldron explosion, or kill others through accidental poisoning. He could not chance it.

Severus vanished the entire collection of bottles.

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A/N: Thank you for reading! Please leave a review if you can!


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